A Streetcar Named Expire

by Mary Daheim

  “The couple next to Mrs. Folger weren’t married,” Billy put in. “I don’t think much of this free love stuff. Then again,” he muttered with a dark glance at his wife, “the kind you pay for isn’t always so good, either.”

  “Do you remember the Whiffels?” Judith asked. “A brother and sister, in 305.”

  Billy looked blank, but Midge nodded vigorously. “He was a lawyer with big buck teeth. I think she’d been a schoolteacher. They moved to a retirement home. I forget who came along next. Seems to me there were several different tenants. Newlyweds, a couple of them. The wife would get pregnant and they’d go looking for a bigger place with a yard.”

  Judith calculated that there was still a third floor unit that hadn’t been accounted for. “Who lived in the apartment across the front hall from you?”

  “Dave and Emily Baines,” Midge replied.

  The name sounded familiar. “Had they been there long?” Judith asked.

  Billy shook his head. “Less than a year. They got evicted.”

  “How come?” queried Renie.

  Midge looked disgusted. “No pets were allowed after Guthrie took over. When the Baineses moved in, they had a bird they didn’t tell anybody about. One day it got loose and ran all over the place. Somebody finally cornered it by the courtyard fountain.”

  “The bird ran?” Renie asked, puzzled.

  “A big bird,” Billy said. “It was an ostrich named Emil.”

  “You didn’t tell me that Joe had been asked to find Emil,” Renie said as she and Judith made yet another trip across Heraldsgate Hill. “As for the Baineses, I don’t agree that it can’t be a coincidence. You always insist that things are linked together in some bizarre fashion, just so you can beat your brain trying to figure it all out.”

  “It just seems strange,” Judith said. “But I suppose Emil couldn’t have guessed that he’d end up in the yard of somebody who was about to find a dead body in the apartment house where he used to live.”

  “Illegally,” Renie noted. “And I don’t think ostriches are very bright.”

  “Maybe Joe should have agreed to find Emil,” Judith said. “What if there’s a connection?”

  Renie was looking exasperated. “There isn’t. I already said that. It’s just a damned coincidence. Come on, coz, where’s your famous logic?”

  They had reached the steep street that led to Renie’s neighborhood. “You’re right,” Judith conceded. “I got carried away. I’d better concentrate on Helen Schnell and Rufus Holmes.”

  “Why?” Renie asked as Judith pulled up in front of the Joneses’ Dutch Colonial. “They weren’t around when Mrs. Carrabas got killed.”

  “Not that we know of,” Judith allowed.

  “Give it a rest,” Renie said, getting out of the car. “See you tomorrow at Gut Busters.”

  “Right.” Judith smiled weakly. “G’night.”

  She waited until Renie got inside the house. Then she slowly drove back home, wondering about coincidences. No doubt Renie was right about the ostrich.

  But there was another coincidence that bothered her more than Emil. Despite a fifty-year gap, the deaths of Dorothy Meacham and Aimee Carrabas struck Judith as odd.

  Joe would say she had too much imagination. Renie would tell her she was making something out of nothing. Bill might diagnose her as nuts.

  Still, Judith couldn’t help but wonder.

  SEVEN

  DURING THE NOON hour on Monday, Judith and Renie returned to Gut Busters’ parking lot to load their separate cars with cases of toilet paper, drums of bleach, wheels of cheese, bricks of butter, and heroic-sized hams.

  “Are you sure you can’t go with me to see Helen Schnell?” Judith asked, carefully wedging a carton of hundred-watt light bulbs between a case of Merlot and a box filled with forty-eight deodorant roll-ons.

  “Really, I can’t,” Renie said, barely able to shut the Camry’s trunk. “Sorry.” She started toward the driver’s side, then stopped and clapped her hands to her head. “Damn! I forgot the Pepsi! See you.”

  Envying her cousin’s agile hips, Judith watched Renie race back to the Gut Busters’ entrance. With a sigh, she got into the Subaru and headed out of the industrial warehouse area.

  Helen Schnell had professed mild pleasure when Judith had called her that morning. Helen certainly remembered Mr. Grover, such a kind man and an exceptional mentor. But Helen was somewhat puzzled by Judith’s interest in the Alhambra. Judith said she’d explain when they met in person.

  It wasn’t an apartment where Helen was temporarily lodged, but a two-story frame house that had been divided into a duplex. Helen lived on the second floor. There was a separate entrance, and it took some time for the retired teacher to answer Judith’s ring.

  “Judith Grover?” the tall, plain woman with short gray hair said as she opened the door.

  “Judith Flynn, actually,” Judith replied, catching her breath and putting out her hand. “I really appreciate your hospitality.”

  “I’ve made tea and there’s some banana bread,” Helen said, leading the way up the narrow wooden stairs. Her voice was very precise and her carriage ramrod straight. “You must excuse the sparse furnishings, but I put most of my things in storage until I can move into the condo.”

  Entering the living room, Judith saw what Helen meant. The only furniture was a sofa, two chairs, and an end table that held a tray with the tea items. The walls were bare, though an old but handsome Oriental carpet covered the living room floor. Judith sat down on the sofa.

  “You must tell me about your interest in the Alhambra,” Helen said, pouring tea into two mugs, one of which read “Teacher of the Century” and the other, “Money Can’t Buy Brains Unless You’re Going to Stanford.”

  Judith accepted the tea and a slice of banana bread, then related her adventure on the mystery tour.

  “My word!” Helen cried when Judith got to the discovery of Mrs. Carrabas’s body. “How horrible. Then it was your picture in Friday’s evening paper.”

  Judith realized there was no television set in sight, which might indicate that Helen hadn’t seen the dreadful feature on KINE-TV news. “I’m afraid so,” Judith admitted. “I’d rather not have had them run it.”

  “I can see why,” Helen said, exhibiting indignation for Judith’s sake. “Now tell me, please, how your husband fits into all this.”

  Judith did, including Joe’s credentials as a long-time homicide detective. “Helping him with the background is something I can do, even though I’m certainly no sleuth.” She tried not to wince; at least the newspaper accounts hadn’t mentioned her previous brushes with murder. “I understand you’ve lived all your life at the Alhambra.”

  “That’s true,” Helen said with a solemn nod. “My parents moved there shortly after they were married. The Depression hit them quite hard. I was born a few years later. They liked the location very much, and the rent was always reasonable. Then the war came along, and my father was killed shortly before V-E Day. Mother had no reason to move, so there we remained. It’s the only home I know, which is why I’m willing to buy a condo there. Perhaps it’s foolish, but I can’t imagine living anywhere other than at the Alhambra.”

  “That’s understandable,” Judith said. “Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

  With a sad little smile, Helen shook her head. “I always assumed that my parents didn’t have any more children because they couldn’t afford to raise a larger family. Still, we got along very nicely. I was able to attend college, and then I got a teaching job. That was how I met your father. I had student-taught under him, and because he was so impressed with my ability—” Helen stopped, flushed, and put a hand to her mouth. “Goodness, that sounds so conceited. Anyway, your father recommended me for a permanent position at the same high school. Such a fine man. I was sorry to learn that he died rather young.”

  “His heart,” Judith said. “He’d had rheumatic fever as a boy. It left him with an enlarged heart.”

&nbs
p; Both women were silent for a few moments, lost in their memories of Donald Grover. Judith agreed with Helen Schnell’s assessment. Her father had indeed been a kind man, intelligent, patient, and extremely indulgent when it came to his only child.

  “Tell me,” Judith said at last, “had you ever heard of this Mrs. Carrabas?”

  “No,” Helen replied. “I knew nothing about the exorcism, either, until I read it in the newspaper. Such a silly idea, in my opinion. I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Guthrie was trying to call attention to the Alhambra merely to help make sales.”

  “It’s a thought,” Judith allowed. “He certainly was going to use that cache of jewelry as a promotional ploy.”

  “Yes.” Helen got up to fetch the teapot. “Let me warm that up for you. I’m sorry about those rather hideous mugs, but I packed away all the good china.”

  Judith accepted the refill. “How many different renters lived in the apartment where the body was found?”

  Helen reseated herself and appeared thoughtful. “A youngish couple had that unit until just about the time World War Two started. I don’t recall their names. Then came the Epsteins, Jewish refugees from Germany. They died twenty years or so ago, within months of each other. After that, there were the Irwins. He became quite ill, so they moved into a retirement home that had nursing facilities. Unfortunately, he died not long afterward. The last I heard, Mrs. Irwin had Alzheimer’s, poor woman.”

  “So that’s why the apartment was vacant,” Judith remarked.

  “Yes, like the Folger unit upstairs.” Helen carefully poured cream into her tea. “Since Mr. Guthrie was planning to renovate the Alhambra, it was pointless to bring in new tenants.”

  “But there was still furniture left in the Irwin unit,” Judith pointed out.

  “I know,” Helen said. “Mrs. Irwin had very little space in the retirement home. She left many of her things for Mr. Guthrie to dispose of. To be honest,” Helen added with a sad little smile, “I think Florence—Mrs. Irwin—was already in mental decline.”

  “Alzheimer’s is a terrible curse,” Judith noted. “Tell me—would either the Epsteins or the Irwins be the type to hide jewelry under the floor?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Helen replied, “but you never know about people, do you? When I read about the so-called treasure, it crossed my mind that the Epsteins might have brought it with them when they fled Nazi Germany. But why they would keep it hidden baffles me. You also have to remember that there had been other tenants in that unit before the young couple I knew from my childhood.”

  Judith finally went to the heart of the matter. “How well did you know the Meachams?”

  “Not very well,” Helen replied. “They lived in the unit next door, but I saw them only in passing. In the elevator, on the stairs, that sort of thing. The daughter—Anne-Marie?—was a sweet little thing.”

  “Did you ever hear the Meachams quarrel?” Judith asked.

  “Not that I recall,” Helen said. “Harry Meacham was gone for almost four years, serving in Europe. You must also realize the Alhambra is soundly built. You couldn’t hear footsteps overhead or furniture being moved or loud radios and televisions. I don’t remember hearing voices from any of the surrounding apartments unless I was passing through the hallway.”

  “I can see why you want to stay,” Judith said. “The fact that two women were murdered in the Alhambra obviously doesn’t scare you.”

  Briefly, Helen’s expression betrayed what might have passed for a little thrill, though her words were sober enough. “In a big city, people die violent deaths almost every day. I barely knew the Meachams, and I’d never heard of the Carrabas woman. I don’t mean to sound callous, but the deaths didn’t affect me. In any event, I didn’t realize that Mrs. Meacham had been killed until recently. My mother was convinced that she—Mrs. Meacham—ran off with another man. So many marriages failed after the war. It seemed plausible.”

  The remark put an idea into Judith’s head. “While Harry Meacham was serving in the army, do you know if Dorothy had male visitors?”

  “Not that I ever heard of,” Helen replied. “Mother would have noticed if she’d seen strange men in the building.”

  “Who else lived on that floor besides the Meachams and Mr. Holmes?”

  “Let me think,” Helen said, smoothing her short gray hair at the temple. “A woman named Turner who was an executive secretary downtown.

  “No,” she corrected herself, “Miss Turner was on three. Straight across the atrium there was a family named Merriam, with three grown children—they had one of the larger units. There were also the Hasegawas, but unfortunately, they were sent to one of those dreadful internment camps during the war. Two young women moved into their unit. I can’t recall their names, but because they worked in the shipyards, my parents referred to them as Rosie the Riveter, One and Two.” Helen put a hand to her lips, suppressing a smile. “My parents had quite a sense of humor.”

  Judith felt like asking for an example, but forced a small chuckle instead. “That’s five units. How many condos will there be on each floor?”

  “Three,” Helen replied. “Mine will run all the way across the end of the building.”

  “Are the sales going well for Mr. Guthrie?” Judith inquired.

  “I’m not sure,” Helen said. “I don’t believe he’s gotten that far into the marketing phase. It’s not easy for most people to visualize the finished condos. He may want to hold off until the major renovations are completed.”

  Judith tried to think if there was anything else she could ask Helen Schnell. So far, the information had proved mundane. “How long did Harry stay after Dorothy turned up missing?”

  “A few months, off and on. Then Mother heard he was getting remarried,” Helen went on. “I suppose he had to get a divorce first, since Dorothy was believed to be missing rather than dead. Mother thought he acted too hastily.”

  “Did you ever see the second Mrs. Meacham?” Judith asked.

  “Yes, once,” Helen replied. “He and Anne-Marie were in the elevator with a rather handsome-looking blond. Mr. Meacham didn’t introduce us. Mother felt that was very queer. But she assumed the woman was his bride-to-be. I do recall that when he spoke to her by name, it was Betty or Beth or something like that. I had an Aunt Elizabeth, so I suppose that’s why I remember it.”

  “Did you mention any of this to the police?”

  Helen shook her head. “They never asked. Detective Price and that young woman with the long black hair concentrated only on Mrs. Carrabas’s murder. That and the jewelry. Naturally, I could be of no real help.” Helen got up again. “More tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Judith said. “I should be going. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”

  “It’s no bother,” Helen insisted. “Now that I’ve retired, I sometimes get a trifle bored. All those plans and activities that seemed so enticing while I still taught no longer appeal to me. I’m considering tutoring children, especially the disadvantaged.”

  Judith had also gotten to her feet. “That’s an admirable idea. You still have a lot to give young people.”

  The praise seemed to embarrass Helen Schnell. “Perhaps.” She walked Judith to the top of the steep stairs. “By the way, is your mother still living?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied.

  Helen’s expression grew wistful. “You’re very lucky. I still can’t quite believe that my mother is gone. I’m sure you wake up every morning and thank the good Lord for letting your mother live so long.”

  “I do,” Judith lied, and felt guilty of at least two sins. “Oh—one other thing,” she said, urging her conscience to shut up, “do you have Rufus Holmes’s current address?”

  “No,” Helen said. “Mr. Guthrie would have it, though.”

  “Of course,” Judith said, firmly grasping the handrail. “Thanks again.”

  “You’re more than—” Helen stopped. “Did I mention that Mr. Meacham’s lady friend had an accent?”
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  Still gripping the rail, Judith turned her head. “No. What kind?”

  “German or Scandinavian,” Helen replied. “Or so Mother thought. The woman spoke only briefly in the elevator, which made it hard to tell.”

  Judith again murmured her thanks, then headed out into the golden August afternoon. Helen Schnell’s duplex was located almost at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Jeremy Lamar’s tour office was just three blocks away. Traversing the long aisles of Gut Busters while pushing a heavy cart had taken its toll on Judith’s hips. She had to drive, rather than walk, the short distance, but luckily found a parking space only a few yards from the Toujours La Tour headquarters.

  The door of the one-story brick building was open, but the interior was completely dark. In the patch of light coming from outside, Judith could see another door to her left. She moved toward it on aching hips as the door behind her closed.

  Before she could find the doorknob, a ghastly apparition materialized from a scant twenty feet down the hall. Judith let out a strangled cry. The figure was all fluid white motion, with black holes for eyes and a slack-jawed mouth with a lolling black tongue. It seemed to float, coming ever closer to Judith.

  Frantic, she fumbled for the doorknob. Clawlike hands reached out to her. Judith screamed and tried to duck out of the way.

  The door opened from the other side. Nan Leech stood on the threshold, looking annoyed. The apparition withdrew.

  “Dennis, that’s not funny,” Nan said angrily. “Go practice somewhere else.”

  The apparition stopped moving, except for its head, which jutted forward. “Boo!”

  Judith jumped. The claws tugged at the head, and the face of a freckled young man appeared. “Hi. Did I scare you?”

  “You sure did,” Judith gasped. “I almost had a heart attack.”

  Nan stepped forward. “This is Dennis Lamar, Jeremy’s younger brother. He’s practicing for the Halloween tour.” She wagged a finger at Dennis. “Don’t ever do that when there might be clients around. You’ll scare off business. And turn those hall lights back on right now.”